"Much better you keep your hand on your pistol and your eye out for foot-pads--and one dreamer in the family is enough. I hope I have not infected you." She forsook her glowing image and looked at him inquisitively. He wandered about the room again and paused to look at a row of daguerreotypes on a shelf, dead and forgotten Belmonts. "You do dream a good deal," he said. "Judging by your varying styles of beauty as well as other things, you must be possessed by a dozen different sorts of old Johnnies trying to mutter something up out of the dark." "I'm going to be nothing but a dreamer for a whole week." "If that means that you will forget chickens, and dress yourself decently, I shall do what I can to heighten the illusion. Should you like me to make love to you?" he asked, turning to her with a quickening interest. "That might wake me up," said Isabel, politely. "This week is crowded with parties and things. I am to visit Mrs. Hofer and go to all of them. You won't see much of me until New Year's eve, when I come home and we dine at a Bohemian restaurant with Lyster and Paula, and watch the street crowds after. But I do not look so far ahead. If I am a success to-night I am going to make believe that I am an old-time belle like Helena Belmont, or my poor little mother, for that matter. And I shall feel just like her when I start, for Angelique will pin up my skirts under a long cloak, and pull carriage boots over my slippers so that nothing will be spoiled going down those steps. I suppose I can't hope to be quite such a belle as if I had lived in those less-sophisticated days, but who knows? And I can forget Rosewater--and Bohemia; I sha'n't even think of the Stones until New Year's eve; I sent them their Christmas presents this morning, on purpose. I am going to be frivolous, coquette, and imagine myself a girl of the old Southern Set, when there were no new people. And I'm going to make them _think_ I am a great beauty, whether I am or not. I remember mamma used to say to me: 'Cultivate the beauty air. That often is more effective than beauty itself. Tiny Montgomery was a beauty according to every known standard, but she had no dash, and was never looked at when Helena Belmont was in the room.' So to-night, you'll see me sail into that ballroom as if I already had the town at my feet. By-the-way--the last time I began to feel like a real girl again was that night at Arcot--and I did feel eighteen--triumphant--happy--until I got back and saw Lord Zeal in the library. I have never forgotten his face." "Nor have I," said Gwynne, dryly; but he turned pale. "I suppose you haven't had the least suspicion what he came to tell me that night?" "I thought to say good-bye without letting you know--it isn't possible that he told you he intended to kill himself?" "He told me a good deal more. He had shot Brathland. Murdered him, in plain English. You may fancy the night I had with him."